


Zarniqa

by PridakArbiter



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen, Poisoning, Self-Insert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-19 08:22:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29623416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PridakArbiter/pseuds/PridakArbiter
Summary: No weapons. No martial might. A weak body. No allies. A mad king. A realm in the midst of destruction.A self-insert finds herself in the body of Elia Martell, and tries to avert her fate in the only way that makes sense, assassinating the Mad King.
Comments: 15
Kudos: 57
Collections: Foreknowledge





	1. Dosage

The distinctive stench of burnt flesh still lingered in the air, an unseen miasma that spoke of madness and the slow, inevitable march into madness. Spots on the carpet and straw-covered floor were stained with soot, bare spots amongst the finery and livery, just like the sores that covered the face of the king.

“These sweet rolls,” The king exclaimed, snarling, spitting saliva like a dog in the last grips of hydrophobia. His wizened fingers clutching at the armrests, letting the blades of one-time enemy swords bite into his palms, “They aren’t sweet!”

“Your Grace!” The cook squirmed below, quivering in fear, his great girth turned to blubber by the force of his kowtowing demeanor. It’s a strange sight to see a man of such vitality forced to his knees below a wizened and twisted man, aged beyond all years by a touch of madness upon his brow.

“Silence!” The king demanded, inflicting a sudden silence on the great hall, like a switchblade suddenly stabbed into the living, breathing heart of court life. Still whispers died before they could be uttered. Those closest to the doors slipped free while the king’s attention lingered on the unfortunate soul before him. All knew what would come, such spectacles had become a common occurrence in the lair of the mad.

I stood alone, the usual courtiers had grown sparse, even they could sense the lingering tendrils of insanity in the wind. Could feel the long, slow creep of death eternal if they stayed overlong. Any could die to the whims of the king.

The city would fall, but none know living knew that with certainty but I. None had read the hallowed letters, black on white pages that spelled out the doom yet to come.

The king, in all his madness, turned eyes that would look more fitting on the worst inmates in an asylum toward the gaoler, who stood stiffly by the cook’s side. The cook in turn continued to shudder, trembling with fright. He had to already know what was coming, all present could discern the current mood of the king, a black mood that was not easily broken.

Four provinces rising in open rebellion could do that to a monarch whose grip upon the kingdom was already fraying, which had been fraying for years. A kingdom held together by the strength of the king’s small council, and not by the vigour of the monarch. The king was sick, and where sickness is, ill things follow.

“Burn him! Summon the pyromancers!” Good King Aerys demanded, commanding the man in gold and white below him to carry out his fell orders.

I grimaced from my place in the shadows, below the head of one of the dragons, staying out of the king’s sight, but close enough to see the fallen fruit of my deeds. It was not the cook who soiled the king’s sweets. The cook had toiled loyally for King Aerys for many years, still present when many of the servants had been already stripped away, burned by the king, or lured to safer pastures. He was a master of his craft, and I had supped on his creations for all the months that I had lingered within this den of treachery.

He had to take the fall and burn. It was my folly, the dosage not strong enough. To my credit, a poisoner’s business was a complicated one. Too much and the taster would succumb before it reached the lips of the king, too little and the king would not succumb. Here it was too little. Poison was a fickle thing, especially for one that was only nominally an expert. An internet expert to be honest. Killing a king was a deed made for those of greater strength.

I was weak. Frail in body and, before this new genesis, in mind as well. Thin limbs, bordering on anorexia. I had to force this pitiful body to eat more to build up the strength I knew I would need. Strength to carry out greater plots, with greater success than bitter flowers in a king’s pastry.

There was steel there that lingered, kept my spine straight when I should be bowed by guilt and self-recrimination for the failed plots. For all the innocents that had to suffer so. My path was clear, for the good of the realm, for the good of the seven kingdoms, Aerys must die.

“No, no, no, please your grace! Please! Please! I have a family!” The cook blithered, pushing against the binds that kept him prostrate before the king. Kept him kneeling before an unworthy ruler, unkempt and sallow-faced.

It was a wonder that a king looked no better cared for than a man that spent four days in the dungeons, within the dreaded Black Cells. I forced myself to watch as the Alchemist’s Guild acolytes shambled forward, just about tripping over their long robes, the barrel of liquid, un-catalyzed wildfire sloshed in the barrel. I couldn’t help but cringe, every time Aerys ordered a death, he gambled with fire in more ways that one. The wildfire was volatile, like nitro-glycerin, it did not like potential energy of any kind.

Potential energy, kinetic energy, one of the two. Maybe I’d be better at toxins and poisons if I had paid more attention during the endless lectures of General Chemistry. Still, I learned enough to at least meddle with the two and meddling was all I had going for me.

“Your grace,” one of my ladies-in-waiting murmured, half-hiding behind me, not willing to draw the king’s eye.

“Yes?” I answered, tone equally quiet, barely heard over the increasingly frenzied begging of the innocent man I had condemned to death through non-action. Philosophically, I didn’t have much to blame on myself for these senseless killings, but this one was personal. It had been I that slipped the supposedly tasteless powder into the king’s food. The sugar had evidentially reacted with the poison to render it inert, like the cakes fed to Rasputin by his murderers. Failed there and failed here.

“It is a princess’s place to watch the king’s justice be carried out,” I defended my continued presence, my voice high, lending toward shrill. My words were false, from all accounts this body had been frail in both body and spirit.

The lady-in-waiting turned her face away, the blue eyes and brown hair of a lesser daughter of a lesser house of the crownlands. She shied away from my probing eyes, not daring to meet my own sharp brown. I had no more Dornishwomen in my employ, only Crownlanders. Aerys didn’t trust them and my predecessor correctly deduced he would see them burned for their heritage. He remembered the Targaryens brought low by the Rhyonish people of Dorne.

I needed to see this, nonetheless. Needed to see what my incompetence had wrought.

The wildfire splashed, and the cook spluttered for a moment, like a drowned man gasping for air when his head reemerged from the waves. Then the greenish, faintly glowing fluid ignited, sending tongues of green flames dancing across his flesh.

The air was rent with the cook’s shriek, splitting the air as he screeched like a dead man. My lips curled back into a grimace, but I did not cover my ears. My ladies-in-waiting quailed, manicured hands slamming into their ears, disturbing their delicate coiffures. I unclenched my teeth, not permitting myself to turn my gaze away from the cook as his flesh boiled and cooked upon his own bones.

The smell that hit the air was nauseating, at once reminding me of burnt pork and turning my stomach at the same time. It was an unholy smell, only hideous by the point of its origin in pain and paranoia. Justified paranoia in this case, but hideous all the same.

One of those behind me dry-retched, then turned and fled the great hall. I did not turn, not daring to draw attention to her fleeing form. It would be unwise to move while the presumed poisoner burned. The king’s eye was like Sauron’s, always watching, roving over the crowd, watching for ‘weakness’ or ‘deceit.’ To show sympathy for those the king burned was anathema in this court.

Once, reason had prevailed. But it had fled with the departure of the crown prince, Rhaegar, the man who could have been king. In his absence, the spymaster, Varys, whispered insidiously in turning the king against the city. Enough to keep the king placated, but just enough that the city suffered.

I hated him. A balding fat eunuch, waddling around with a grim but satisfied smile on his face. He was enemy number dos, and I hated him almost as much as I hated the King. My breaths were shallow, and the screams of a dying man filled my ears. I hated Varys for he was the one that unveiled the subterfuge, that suggested the taster when I first began to pore through Maester Pycelle’s tomes of herbal knowledge.

His little birds dogged my steps, but he was still too high in Aery’s favour to touch. Not yet, but his comeuppance would be not long in coming.

Jaime Lannister, newest knight of the kingsguard, stood below the king, guarding the ascent up to the Iron Throne.

The cook had ceased screaming, and all I could think was that I needed to be better next time. I had no intention of letting more innocents suffer for my mistakes. Next time the dagger needed to be sure, the poison bitter, and the operation perfect.

Nausea swam in my stomach, and I forced myself to keep watching over the body as it twisted, life long since boiled away. The muscles burned, contracting upon themselves, twisting, making it seem like the man was still alive, but it was just a facsimile.

“Wine,” I ordered quietly, and a servant-girl stumbled forward with a glass, followed by another with a pitcher. Tremblingly she filled my glass, and I allowed myself to lift it to parched lips, letting the sour wine wash down my throat, watered down. Alcohol was the only safe thing to drink in this hellhole, everything else was riddled with bacteria or needed pasteurization before I would even dare to drink it.

The wine did nothing to curb the nausea that continued to climb like an unseen caterpillar in my stomach. Some say that you feel butterflies when nervous, but all I could think of was flesh-eating caterpillars squirming through my intestines.

“Dornish wench,” King Aerys spat, and I straightened from where I stood in the shadows of the dragon’s skull. I stepped out into the light of noonday, that streamed through the narrow windows and let the torchlight dance over my red and black dress. Targaryen colors for a Targaryen house.

“Your Grace,” I curtsied, the action as natural as any this body attempted to make. A graceful slight bending which made my head swim, but through it all I kept my composure. Ten thousand curses upon the weakness of this frail body!

Aerys seemed to smile, cracked lips pulled back past the grime filled once-silver hair. He leaned back in the Iron Throne, shifting with discomfort but not uncomfortable to forgo his seat of authority.

“Come to beg permission to flee back to your wretched den?” Aerys cackled, yellow nails scraping against iron, “Or maybe to admit your place in this plot to kill me?”

I stood silent for a moment, letting Aerys vent just a little of his madness. So soon after ordering death, he would be satiated for at least a short while. A slight intruding of reason through the veil of madness.

“Have not the Dornish ever been your loyal servants?” I asked, voice still girlishly clear. It carried farther than I intended in the silence that followed a public execution.

Aerys’ brow twitched. For better or for ill, I had caught his attention, “Four of the seven kingdoms, parts of the kingdom that your ancestors built, now fight in open rebellion! Haven’t the Dornish stood by your side through all of this tumultuous time?”

“Westeros is mine, Martell,” Aerys said, glaring, a line of spittle stretching down from his pale lips. My gambit was in full play. If I only could get enough agency to act. I needed to take this chance.

I ignored the way my heart thumped in my chest, how I felt lightheaded where I stood, dressed in red and black funeral colors.

“Mace Tyrell sits with an army of a hundred-thousand besieging a single keep. A hundred-thousand which could have marched to assist my prince, Rhaegar, your heir.”

“A pitiful heir,” Aerys murmured, the glint of madness leaching back into his sallow face. He reached up with a yellowed nail to pick at a sore on his cheek, worrying it with filth covered fingers. I held back a shudder.

“Tywin Lannister does not move from the Westerlands, he looks to see where the wind is blowing,” I continued, “A pitiful action for a lion.”

Aerys’ attention snapped back down to me where I stood far below both the Iron Throne and dais of the throne. The courtiers that still lingered tittered in place, whispers rising. They could sense the whim of the king was in flux. Loyalists and opportunists alike.

“Yes, it is, isn’t it?” he said, fingers curling into fists, “Tywin a coward? I’d like to see it.”

“You are seeing it, your grace,” I dared to say, my throat felt parched, and it was to my credit that my voice didn’t tremble, “Where are the Lannisters? Did they march to aid your heir?”

Aerys seemed to ponder this, his eyes wandering over the great scales and skulls of the dragons of his forefathers. His nails tapped against the metal. Visions of my own flesh melting from my bones, joining the flesh of my burned servants danced through my mind. Twisting in agony for eternity.

“Who marched with the prince?” I pontificated, “It was the Dornish! My brother marches with ten thousand Dornish warriors, all but leaving Dorne undefended, all for the rule of the rightful king of Westeros! When all else forsook their bonds of loyalty, the Dornish remained!”

Aerys leaned back, sharp eyes lingering over the court, the eyes of a man who watched for a crossbowman in the shadows, a man who watched for a dagger in the dark unceasingly.  
“Give me leave-”

“To what? Dornish wench? Flee to your brother in the south? Forsake me like the other traitors of traitor houses?” Aerys stood in place, tottering, almost teetering, and glared down at me, fury burning in his gaze.

“Give me leave to seek out these traitors-,” I raised my voice, a grand gesture to the corpse before me, “To find those that seek the ruin of both house Martell and Targaryen, and end them! Give me this power, this permission, your grace!”

“Begone!” Aerys hissed and sank back down, teetering no more. Splotches of color were high on his pale cheeks and he huffed from the exertion. His madness-filled eyes watched me as I curtsied again and walked backward until it was polite to turn my back. I lingered for a moment, watching his furious gaze sweep over the hall, daring any to approach him.

He was the dragon in a hall of lambs. At least for a time. The viper lay in weight for the dragon to rest its madness-addled head.

Then the fangs would strike swift and true.


	2. Enzyme

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elia talks with the Rhaella and Varys, and plots are set in motion

Such optimistic dreams lingered only long enough to see me out of the great hall with a straight back. Then came the subconscious gibbering and mad terror, talons sharp enough to engulf my thoughts. I paused a long instant in the midst of the hallway, focusing on calming my breathing.

As frail as this body was, I didn’t need to suffer early-onset heart failure. It said wonders that Elia managed to live as long as she did if her body was so infuriatingly weak. Every exertion left my pulse thundering in my ears and made my breaths shallow. I clenched and unclenched fists, letting my racing thoughts confront me with the way I could have worded things better.

If I spent longer building up to the point? Cast more aspersions on the Tyrells and the Lannisters, would that have swayed the king? My ladies-in-waiting tittered behind me, muffled whispers that didn’t quite reach me. I was besotted with enemies, some that even lingered in my shadows and coattails.

All of my ladies-in-waiting were twisted creatures of King’s Landing, equally ready to sink metaphorical knives into each other's backs in the name of social advancements. I was, as of yet, beyond reproach because of my station, but the more I slipped up, the less unassailable my reputation would be for gossip.

The slick whispers ceased, and I turned then, the red and black of the Targaryen-colored dress swirling about my ankles as I did so. A tall woman with her own gaggle of sycophants swept across the passageway adjacent to the great hall, pausing in her stride away from the hall as she spotted me in the hallway.

Queen Rhaella, the unfortunate daughter of Valyria. Her high features were pinched with worry, she stood watching me for a moment, her face seeming to twitch, and then she stepped toward me with dainty steps. Her retinue swept behind her, reds and greens, blues and yellow, all the colors but red and black together.

“Your Grace,” I raised my voice but did not curtsy. Here, in the absence of the king within the chamber, we were nominally of the same rank, just two princesses of different houses. One of the lineage of dragons, the other a daughter of the spear and sun.

Rhaella nodded, expression sharp and searching. She examined my face, searching for something, before she leaned back in place slightly, permitting me some of my personal space again. Her red dress displayed a very gentle curve over her abdomen, the first swellings of a child that would be born when House Targaryen descended to its fated pauperdom.

“Where did you find that iron spine, Elia?” Rhaella inquired, seeming almost mystified. Her pale white brows were drawn upward in an expression of surprise. The diadem upon her head glimmered in the torchlight with ruby light.

“I am sickened by the attacks against our houses, what I said was the leal truth,” I replied, voice far steadier than it had any right to be.

“You are lucky that the king was in a forgiving mood,” Rhaella shuddered, her eyes suddenly not daring to meet mine, casting themselves away to crawl over the red and black tapestries on the walls.

I tried to chuckle, to blow off the remark, but I couldn’t. What I intended to come out as a good-natured chuckle, emanating as an unpleasant sounding hitch in my breath, “I have no desire to visit the Black Cells, you can rest assured.”

“He wouldn’t-” Rhaella defended her husband, eyes snapping up to mine. She swallowed suddenly at whatever emotion she saw in my eyes. Her lips quirked nervously, and she offered, “The King is just.”

“The King is just, everyone that graces the Black Cells deserves it, traitors one and all,” I said, saccharine sweet. Just like the Starks? Is that who you’re thinking of, good queen Rhaella? Is the king just?

Rhaella rubbed her hands together, casting a glance sideways, just now noticing that the sycophants, our ladies-in-waiting, had for one seen discretion as the better part of valor and withdrawn in one large group to the end of the hallway. Somehow, they expected this conversation to go differently.

It was times like these that the absence of the Kingsguard was most notably felt. All but Jaime Lannister were absent from Kings Landing and few alive knew of their current duties.

Queen Rhaella abruptly offered me a half-hearted smile, perhaps meant to be assuring, then turned on her heels and walked away, her gaggle of courtiers at the end of the hall peeled away from mine and made to follow her, parting like water as the King strode out into the hall with the golden, immaculate, form of Jaime Lannister at his heels.

Aerys spoke something, low and quiet and Rhaella fell into step behind him a moment later, wringing her hands together. Rubbing over them, like she was washing at her hands. Again and again, but no discomfort was allowed to grace her face.

The king’s mad eyes darted down the adjacent hall to the great hall, scanning over the dispersing occupants until they met mine. There was no flicker of emotion, no recognition, no glimmer of thought, then his eyes passed over me and over other people. The crown of Aegon IV rested heavily on his brow, like the madness he carried beneath his sore-ridden face.

I turned. My footsteps were somehow loud against the stone floor in the silence that always followed the king’s presence when he appeared in unexpected places. No wonder he dreamed that people conspired when the hall went dead quiet with his appearance. But how could they not, when an errant overheard word could see them burned or raped on the command of the king?

In King’s Landing, the mad man was king, and he did not suffer any to raise criticism against his rule.

The passageways of the Red Keep were cavernous and labyrinth. I doubted any of its occupants except perhaps the Spider eunuch himself knew about all the ways to traverse the seat of Targaryen power.

I barely got to my tower in the keep, a few of my own retinue peeling away, except for the most ‘loyal’ of the seven. Which meant they could be trusted to maybe keep their mouths shut. Celesse of the upper crownlands, of a house with a white lamb on a green field with a cup, which I would know if I was actually Elia, no doubt, but so far I had gotten by with just knowing first names. Mariya Rosby was the other ‘loyal’ one, at least I think she was a Rosby. The nature of the houses but the focus on first names mostly threw me off quite a bit.

I dreaded being caught in some kind of mistake that showed I wasn’t Elia…

My heart jumped into my throat as a shadow peeled away from behind my door, and for the barest fraction of a second, I could only think about the evil shadow-babies spawned by the red witch. I half-raised an arm, almost into a warding gesture. Shadow-babies already?

Then the figure stepped fully into the light and I felt my expression curdle despite myself. Varys. The scent of lavender and lilac preceded him, he was dressed in purple silk and velvet trim, matching his purplish eyes. He stood serenely, with an almost smile like he was self-satisfied but still concerned. It set my blood boiling, turned to caustic acid within my veins.

“Master of Whisperers,” I spoke frostily, my tone genial but still infinitely guarded.

The fat eunuch bowed his round head just a fraction, “Your Grace.”

He stood for a moment regarding me, before he spoke again in that lilting, effeminate way that seemed so unnatural from such a creature, “I wonder what it is I’ve done to earn your enmity?”

I stepped into the room proper, sending a glance at my ladies-in-waiting. Celesse blinked and stepped back into the hall, I struggled for a moment, before the thin oak door slid shut. It was a risk, but I’d rather any conversation with Varys was overheard by none but him. To be clear, I didn’t trust him at all, but if I was going to answer semi-honestly I could not risk being overheard.

“Your whispers, Lord Varys, are tearing apart what serenity we have left in King’s Landing,” I hissed, viper-like, crowding closer to the fat man, crossing my arms over my chest. They would be crossed under my breasts, if Elia had them, which she really didn’t. It was a point of mental contention but didn’t matter overmuch, since what really mattered in this world was power. Elia had power as the wife of a prince, without her marriage she’d have less power, right now I was at my zenith. It was all downhill from here in canon.

Varys deigned to titter as if he was amused, but I could see the flash of some unseen emotion, deftly hidden, cross his face at my words, “If your grace remembers, I cautioned the king against execution.”

“Do you speak of the cook or of the Lord’s Stark?” I dismissed his assertion with a shaking of my head, letting my black ringlets rustle against my cheeks.

“My interest is in a stable and peaceful realm,” Varys replied, seeming almost amused.

“The good of the realm?” I replied, in turn, fixing him with a glare, “How is the realm tearing itself apart in insurrection a peaceful realm? How is it stable? Even if-”

I cut myself off. Even here within my own tower, I dared not criticize the king explicitly. To do so was to court death or worse. Intellectually, I knew that Varys’ allegiance at this point of time did not rest with the King, but I did not know of his master, or even if he had one at this point in the timeline.

“No,” I said, voice settling back toward even, “You serve none but yourself, Lord Varys, and the sooner that the king sees it, the better the realm will be.”

Varys paused, and I couldn’t tell whether he was discomfited by my accusation, or whether he was just probing. His expression was fixed but fixed in a way that I couldn’t discern his true intentions. It wasn’t exactly true, but it was something that seemed like it sounded right, especially if the rumors about his origin as a Blackfyre scion were true. Rumors from another world that I dared not use. Princess that I might be, it would not help if Varys needed me dead, his little birds were an omnipresent force in the Red Keep. A specter almost as dangerous as the king’s miasma of madness.

“Serving myself is not serving the realm?” Varys responded, still smiling with a smile that somehow reached his eyes. A consummate actor. I hated him. I really did, but to be honest, I hated almost everyone in King’s Landing, and I hadn’t let it cloud my dealings yet.

I broke the topic of conversation, not willing to indulge Varys’ talk of philosophy, “You came for a reason. Speak! And then quit my presence.”

“Your appeal to the king has not been unnoticed,” Varys serenely responded, almost admonishing, “There are many pieces moving, and you’ve made yourself into quite the spectacle.”

“Good,” I responded, gathering my wits, “If I must cast my lot in with the king to secure the power of the throne then so be it. You know as well as I that something will have to give, and if it is Rheagar’s army…”

“We are not so unalike, you and I,” the spymaster said, holding his hands loosely by his waist, watching me intently. I had no idea where he was going with his insinuation, but something visceral rose up inside me, the viper of my temper.

“I am nothing like you! You skulk about in the shadows, lending a poisoned voice to the king when it suits your best interest,” I responded, tone acerbic. Varys watched me for a moment and then with a swish of silk pulled open the door to my tower and departed, slipping between my two ladies-in-waiting as he did so.

The two crowded in a moment later.

I ignored them.

There was much on my mind. Poisons and venoms. That some spiders must perish, that much was clear.

“Wine, your grace?” Mariya of maybe-Rosby asked.

Wordlessly, I accepted a glass from an outstretched hand, and let her fill my wine glass. The wine was as pitifully sour as before, watered down and bland compared to the grapes of my homeland. A homeland that was not Dorne, but in another world.

I sighed then and then glanced up, taking in my two ladies-in-waiting who stood demurely off to the side.

“Where are my children, still at lessons with Maester Pycelle?” I asked the two, even though I already knew the answer.

“Rhaenys is, your grace, Aegon is napping still,” Mariya answered swiftly, her eyes downcast.

I hummed in affirmation and raised one hand to rub at my eyes, careful not to smudge the no-doubt dangerous makeup I was wearing. Women in medieval times experimented with many toxins to make the skin paler or even to induce a blush by damaging capillaries. It was a pity that I didn’t know what my own makeup, which did such a pitiful job concealing my olive-hued skin, was made from. If I knew maybe I could poison the king with it.

Another question to ask the Maester before I arranged his death. If I could even manage to succeed with one of my plots. I half-suspected that Varys already knew that it was me behind the latest poisoning attempt. I hadn’t been nearly as careful as I could’ve been when arranging the sabotage.

For a moment I debated whether I needed to make a list, like the one that Arya would make in the future. Who would be on it? Aerys for sure. Varys? Yes, he had to go. Pycelle was Tywin’s creature, which meant he definitely needed to shuffle from the mortal coil.

Who else? Gregor Clegane?

My stomach twisted. Images of what could be flashed before my mind. The wine tasted sour in my mouth. Yes, Clegane needed to die, I would have it no other way. It didn’t matter if I would assure he wasn’t able to strike me within my own tower. I would not suffer him to live.

“Your grace!” Celesse said, sounding worried, “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” I responded after an instant, words sounding strangled in my throat. I placed the wine glass shakily down on an ornate wood table with coiled dragon feet, carven into a mockery of life. The glass teetered for a moment, unsteady on its stem, and then fell to the side with a clink, but it did not shatter.

The wine spilled across the surface of the table like so much blood.

Red against the white oak of the table.


	3. Switch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elia talks with her uncle and meets her children for the first time (and hopefully not the last)

No, it wasn’t poison, as much as the craven part of me wished that it was so. It was not that I wished to die, quite the opposite really, I wanted to live, that was why I was going through all this effort in the first place.

I could not deny that a small timid part of me couldn’t help but whimper and advance the idea that if I died, would I wake in my bed? Would this be reduced to a bad dream? No, it wasn’t poison, just a flash of what could be, if I failed.

The talons of fate would find this serpent not so readily dispatched. I steeled myself, letting myself lean against the matching dragon-footed chair for a moment, letting the spots clear from my eyes. I didn’t need to faint now.

My greatest enemy was almost not really the enemies I would have to face, instead, it was my frail constitution. I felt as if a stiff zephyr of wind could easily lift me from my feet.

Mariya dabbed at the table with a white cloth, soaking up the wine quickly.

“Ah, so clumsy of me,” I said, almost in explanation but more as an observation. The white cloth soaked in red, much like the blood that one day be scrubbed from rooms much like these if I did not succeed.

My lady-in-waiting glanced at me, something like concern writ across her brow, for an instant.

“Are you well, your grace?” Mariya asked hesitantly, voice rising in question. She was repeating what she asked before. I felt the faintest stirring of my temper, was my assurance not enough?

I cast a sharp glance her way, lips quirking into a frown, “I am fine.”

Swiftly, ignoring how my head swam I turned and sat heavily in the golden dragon-footed chair. I focused on letting my head settle, letting the spots fade before I returned my attention to my lady-in-waiting.

“Where are the others?”

“Others?”

“My other attendants? I don’t remember sending you all away?”

“Celesse is fetching more wine, your grace,” she said, but her brow furrowed, confused by something I said. I felt the chill of the dreary keep tickle at my back, goosebumps running up my spine.

“That’s fine,” I said, offering a smile that came across as a grimace, “I must’ve forgotten.”

I reached out to the table, avoiding the remnants of spilled wine, my thin fingers closed around the book, now no doubt stained red, and lifted it free. The book itself smelled musty, not quite the old book smell I was expecting.

It was a strong smell. Was this parchment or vellum? Did vellum smell differently? Were the pages here made from animal skin? I hadn’t had the opportunity to really pick up a book here before.

The cover was unadorned, blue leather with the seal of the Targaryens on it, a red dragon with three heads, coiling around into a coin shape. Not the most pleasant of looks, but not altogether unpleasant either. Mostly, it was just the personal connotations I now associated the symbol with. The Mad King.

The foolish prince.

Why would you harm Elia so, Rhaegar?

My fingers slid the book open carefully, pausing as my keen eyes traveled over the unfamiliar words? Was I expected to know how to read this? Was this a dialect of written Westerosi that I hadn’t seen? Or whatever the language was called? I was able to read a book of Pycelle’s earlier, one on herbs, it was like olde English but still readable.

My eyes traveled over the white scraped vellum, and the colorful imagery painted on the side of the page, a white heart pierced by arrows. What kind of book was this? Would I be embarrassed to be caught reading it?

“Your grace?” Celesse said, and I glanced toward her, she was in a green dress, simpler than Mariysa, but it did well to match with her black hair and blue eyes.

“Wine?”

I blinked.

A glass was held outstretched in front of me and I took it carefully, careful not to let my hand tremble. Celesse’s hands were warm, unlike mine which felt like they had ice beneath my skin. At least my fingers and hands were smooth, just like I had before, unmarred by physical work of any kind.

Elia had been pampered her entire life, which was both a problem and a boon. A boon in that nobody really seemed to expect her to do anything but sew and sing, or read, and things of a more ‘delicate’ nature, like that.

A detriment because this body was clearly not healthy in the slightest. Not for the last time, my mind’s eye flitted to the idea of poison. I’m sure someone would have noticed if I was being actively poisoned, but…

Maybe a little more caution could be implemented. I was the princess, someday the queen and that meant there was more than one enemy in court. The most obvious, of course, was the man the King scorned with my marriage. Tywin greatly desired Cersei to wed Rhaegar. A desire that Aerys saw fit to mock.

At this point, Aerys was so amused by Tywin’s ‘impotence’ that he would’ve probably wed Rhaegar to literally anyone else but Cersei. Just one of the reasons Tywin was so slow to march to the King’s aid, even now he dallied, but only I knew that treachery was brewing in Tywin’s black heart. Well, I had no doubt that Varys would suspect if young Griff was actually Aegon and not a fake added later.

Which I had my doubts about.

“Arbor Gold,” Celesse said, voice quiet, “The finest vintage in the Reach.”

It was a white wine with a hue like a clearer apple juice. I raised the stemmed glass to my painted lips, tasting the bitter paint and the sour-sweet wine.

Well, sour to my taste, to the people here it was probably one of the sweetest wines they’d tasted. I refrained from pulling a face, suffice to say Arbor Gold, for all that it was vaunted in fanfiction really wasn’t that awesome by a modern standard. Still, the best of the cheap swill offered, but what I would give for a proper Bordeaux or Chardonnay, even a Malbec.

It wasn’t even that white wine wasn’t my favorite. I still drank it fine, just like I could stomach a rose wine. It was just the wine in this world that had issues.

I set the glass down, on the table, and carefully stood, before reclaiming my glass, letting it rest in between my fingers. Idly, I wondered whether Elia favored white or red before I usurped her? White or red, Elia? There was no answer, but then I hadn’t been expecting one anyway. It would’ve been beyond convenient if she’d still been there to offer advice or her memories had blended with mine, but it was not to be.

“Pycelle still has my children, even Aegon?”

“Prince Aegon is with the wet nurse, your grace, shall I fetch him?”

“If you please,” I replied, waving my hand in dismissal.

“The young princess as well?” Celesse asked, tone softly questioning.

I cast a sharp glance up toward her. Her face was carefully blank, but still a single brow edged slightly upward, almost in question. My face twitched, for an instant, I was wracked with indecision, what would Elia do?

“Yes. I am weary,” I responded softly, voice cast low, “I would like to spend some time with them before I am forced back into this endless realpolitik.”

Celesse stepped away with a swish of fabric, her green dress swirling behind her. Her steps seemed overloud on the stone floor like she was wearing clogs or nailed boots. I glanced toward Mariysa, but she didn’t seem concerned. Maybe it was just me then, carefully I rested my head on my hands, careful not to smudge my makeup. I looked down at the book on my knees again, the words jumbled over each other

“Realpolitik, your grace, is that Valyrian?” Mariysa asked, she had finally finished cleaning up the wine. Why hadn’t she called for a maid? Her fingers were stained red from the wine and it reminded me of blood for an instant. Was that all I thought about these days, premonitions of blood and the horrific carnage that awaited me and mine?

“No,” I replied, fingers rubbing together over the book in my lap, “It means . . . like diplomacy or manipulation without regard for ethics, just what is real.”

It was a bad explanation. I wasn’t even sure if I used the word right in the first place. Already, I felt chagrin at myself, realpolitik was definitely not a medieval world, it was what, seventeenth century? Hadn’t I just been berating myself for trying to stand out? Mariysa brow was still furrowed above her brown eyes, but she didn’t ask anything more. My eyes traced the words again on the page, why couldn’t I read this?

I paused, thoughts grinding to a halt. Oh, was this Valyrian? I pursed my lips for an instant before my fingers almost spasmed and I slammed the book shut with a loud snap. More carefully I put it back on the table, deciding to just rest.

My eyes felt heavy, even though I had only risen from my rest but two or three hours ago. Time passed both agonizingly quickly and sometimes not quick enough.

“Your grace, the young prince,” I heard a familiar voice call. I turned in my seat, glancing toward the door. An older woman, trending toward her early thirties with lines on her face stood at the door with a small child on her hip. He had silvery-white hair, which betrayed his Valyrian blood and the paleish pink skin of his family. The purple of his eyes might’ve been unsettling if I saw it back on Earth, but here I had seen it enough that the novelty was wearing off.

Aegon lifted up his arms, a little gummy smile on his round face, and baby-babbled. Despite myself, I couldn’t help but smile, lifting out my arms toward Elia’s child. Beyond the wooden door that even now swung closed, I spotted the stalwart figure of one of the kingsguard, white cloak, and silver armor. Not Jamie then, he was clad in gold for all the world to see and admire. The kingsguard didn’t enter after the wetnurse, which I was thankful for, I always felt like a fly under their scrutiny, partially, no doubt because they were always looking for a threat to their charges. The only one I liked was Jaime Lannister because he seemed less prone to such overprotective instincts.

I was their mother! At least, this body was, and to see them, on occasion, subject me to the same scrutiny as the others sent the creeping tendrils of anxiety through my body. It was an irrational fear, really, because by all appearances I was Elia, and things like possession, body-snatching, and faceless men were little more than legends to most.

Despite this, in the innermost recesses of my mind, I had severe doubts about what I was doing. I felt almost like a changeling but taking the place of an adult rather than a child. It felt unsettling, wrong as if I was the cuckoo in the nest, that would push the other fledglings out or eat them.

The nurse stepped forward, seeming a little uncertain, and handed me Aegon, who squirmed in her hands at the motion.

“I just fed the prince, your grace,” the wet-nurse explained, voice hushed, “he should be sated for an hour or so.”

“My thanks,” I said, “I shall send someone for you if he cries.”

The wetnurse sketched a curtsy and backed away. A small smile graced her thin lips.

I placed my fingers into Aegon’s little hand, but he had outgrown the grasping reflex already. It was six months or so, and Aegon was slightly past his first birthday, or name day as they would call it in this land of heathen barbarians.

It was a pity that I could not feed my children myself, but my breasts had apparently atrophied during the long after childbirth sicknesses that Elia suffered, or at least that was what I had surmised. Maybe if she had not been required to bear a child so early, or was not as sickly then she could’ve done it.

The maester told Rhaegar and possibly the king as well that another child brought to term would probably kill me and the child both. It was one of the many factors that led to this travesty. It was not the sole one, but I was not so blind as to be willfully ignorant of one of the factors. Some part of me felt offense on Elia’s behalf.

At least, I heard no murmurs of annulment from the High Septon, despite the fact that the deed had to be done by now. Rhaegar had been gone for some time, but he had yet to return to lead the Crown’s armies to war. At the moment the absent hand of the king led in Rhaegar’s place. Each day that went by without a word from Rhaegar only helped to stoke the king’s fury to new heights.

Softly, I cooed at Aegon, watching his little face scrunch up. I felt like an imposter, but since I had seized this life from Elia, the most I could do was help her children survive. I had to admit that a small part of me weighed the merits of trying to flee by ship but I kind of doubted my chances.

I refused to be subject to the deceit of Varys, and I was not so arrogant to think I could actually sneak out of the Red Keep. I mean, I probably could get out of the keep with enough planning, but with the frailty of my body and the fact I had no real idea how to even arrange for passage on a ship or even make sure I was dealing with a reputable captain, I dared not risk it.

However, if my lot here did not improve or if I fell under suspicion then I would have no choice and be forced to take the risk. The problem, of course, was that assassinating a king was treason and I dared not risk even telling a single soul except those I could truly trust, which was almost nobody.

“Hello, little Aegon,” I said, holding him close, he was quiet but watched me with intent purple eyes. The little wisps of white hair crept out of his tiny red cap.

“Sweetmeats, your grace?” Mariysa asked, “One of the maids brought it up, I know you have yet to eat anything since breaking your morning fast.”

I did not bother thanking her for the small favor, it was probably a mistake to even thank the servants as much as I did. It felt natural to do it somewhat, but such earnest thankfulness was mostly out of place in such a world as this.

I did not particularly like the taste of sweetmeats, it tasted far too strange, but I did not like much of the food here, but I knew that Elia was sickly and likely I needed to eat far more than I did. I ate the sweetmeats, letting the odd flavor, almost sweet but not quite rest on my tongue, before rubbing my fingers on one hand together to try and rub away the stickiness.

“Mommy!” I heard a small voice cry from the doorway, I turned in my seat again, one arm still about the infant Aegon.

It was Rhaenys, flanked by her great uncle, Lewyn of the Kingsguard. The one kingsguard I feared in a unique way. If there was anyone that would ferret out my identity as not-Elia, it would be him.

“Rhaenys!” I replied, tone sweet, I gestured to her to come closer with my free hand. The little dark-haired girl bounded into the room with a blinding smile. She looked like me, like Elia, and was hence slightly scorned by the throne. With the Targaryen focus on blood purity, I supposed it was a small grace that Aerys hadn’t labeled Elia an adulterer because her daughter did not take after the looks of Valyria. No, she had the dark olive skin, dark almost black Rhyonish eyes, and the black hair of the Dornish.

There was nothing Valyrian in her looks except for the contours of her face, which matched the portraits of the great Targaryen women of the past, and bore more than a passing resemblance to the shape of Rhaella, her grandmother. Small mercies, really.

“Mommy, the maester says Balerion is not a real dragon, but he is! He’s just small!”

Rhaenys reached out to grab my free hand, twining her small fingers with mine. She was basically like Elia, but miniature, and a bit more healthy.

“Maybe he just hasn’t seen how fierce Balerion is? Then he could have no doubt!” I said, smiling. Small children were a delight when they were happy, and I couldn’t help but smile, even when it left me feeling empty, like a fraud.

“Niece,” my uncle finally said, actually interrupting my moment.

“Here, Rhaenys, why don’t you tell Mariysa and Celesse about your lessons with the grandmaester?”

Rhaenys lips quivered, and I frowned, “Here, take a sweetmeat?”

She immediately brightened, stretching out her grubby little hands, and seized a fistful. I bit back a snort of amusement and watched as she bounded away, the little black shadow which was the black dread, Balerion reborn softly padding along behind her. The kitten glanced up at me through slitted green eyes before slinking quickly away after its mistress.

That cat gave me goosebumps. I readjusted little Aegon in my arms, shifting slightly to relieve my tired grip.

“What is it, nuncle?” I finally acknowledged, praying he did not notice the slight almost momentary pause before I said nuncle in place of uncle. It was strange and unnatural, and I feared that I would slip eventually.

“What possessed you, niece, to speak to the King that way?” Lewyn replied, softly in a voice almost a whisper.

I swallowed, hands feeling clammy suddenly. I glanced up toward the spitting image of Pedro Pascal, well Pedro Pascal if he grew a full beard and had weathered scars over his face. His eyes were dark, but not angry, almost questioning.

“The King, not to speak against him,” I said, “Grows more suspicious of shadows in the dark every day, of real and imagined plots. I sought to cast his eye away from Dorne, towards our enemies.”

“And the Lannisters are enemies, niece? You play a dangerous game, you hold a serpent in your hand that has just as much chance of turning back and biting you. The King is not blind, nor is he an imbecile, he can easily see through your attempts at clumsy manipulation.”

I blinked, momentarily shaken by the scolding.

“I know my brother did not teach you to so ineptly deal with the court, what was that challenge? It was plain idiocy, niece. Idiocy,” Lewyn said, shaking his head. His sharp eyes bore into me, almost challenging.

“I needed to do something,” I defended myself weakly.

“That is not the way to do things, silence, keeping yourself to the background is your greatest defense here Elia. You should remember that, and keep these foolish thoughts of manipulation to yourself.”

“Enough!” I said, temper flaring, “Get out!”

“By your leave, your grace,” Lewyn replied, something dark passing over his face. He turned on his heel, hand clutching the handle of his sword, and stalked out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspiration for this chapter came from Widowmaker in a very roundabout way, since I was reading her story about Visenya on Spacebattles and started thinking about ASOIAF.


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